


FairShawlidays: 2020

by hiraeth (torchwoodteaboy)



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fairshaw, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Invented Kul Tiran Holiday Traditions, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, bantering is my favorite form of flirtation, fairshawlidays, winter's veil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28162335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torchwoodteaboy/pseuds/hiraeth
Summary: A collection of short stories for FairShawlidays 2020!Chapter 1: At a feast, Shaw spots some mistletoe and contemplates running right there and then...Chapter 2: Shaw questions the logic of spending their holiday in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, only to get snowed in...Chapter 3: Flynn attempts his hand at a Kul Tiran holiday tradition and property damage ensues...Chapter 4: Shaw and Flynn are invited to a feast. Anduin begs Flynn to get Shaw to relax and simply enjoy himself. Flynn does his best!Chapter 5: Shaw has a rare day off from work, and Flynn knows just the place he'd like to take him...
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 17
Kudos: 46





	1. Fireplace/Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You look as though you’ve swallowed a sour grape,” Flynn observes, the charming smile on his face contradicting his words. “Even sourer than the usual grapes you’re swallowing. Cheer up, mate. You can’t be that miserable at a party with free drink and all the food you can stomach. Have you tried the canapés?”
> 
> Shaw shakes his head in response to the rambling line of question, tearing his eyes off of the sprig of mistletoe before turning them towards his companion at last.
> 
> “I don’t like liver,” he replies, which is at least the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, readers! This is my first formal fanfiction in a long, long time so please be gentle with me. I am definitely behind on the prompts themselves but I am diligently working to fill them. With any luck, they should be done before The Holiday Itself, at least! Thank you to Jack for reading this chapter over for me and hiding my CRIMES.

Being the Alliance Spymaster _does_ have its perks now and again. Unfortunately, it does have its downsides as well. 

Mathias Shaw is not the least bit inclined towards attending formal soirees, and if this one were not put on by the king himself it’s very likely he would not be here at all. Unfortunately for him, he has a duty to look after the young man’s safety. It’s a duty that he considers very important, at that. It’s true, he _can_ shove this off onto a pair of his more trusted agents -- in fact he _has_. Yet Shaw is a member of Anduin’s council, an unlikely advisor to the crown but an advisor nonetheless, and he’d received a personal invitation to attend the gathering this time.

Well, he _and_ a certain ex-pirate acquaintance of his. He had tried very hard not to think about how their invitation had come addressed to the pair of them together. He’d almost succeeded in accomplishing it for the most part, so far.

 _Almost_. 

There’s another matter which the Alliance Spymaster is doing his damnedest to ignore at all costs. It concerns the sprig of mistletoe that sits winking at him across the room, above the grand fireplace where he’d nearly stepped aside to catch a breath of fresh air several moments ago. It almost feels as though whoever put it there had done so intentionally -- which of course is probably the case.

As if summoned on cue, Shaw feels a presence at his side, a familiar elbow connecting with his ribs even as he turns to give the other man a _look_. Of course, there is only one person who would dare to needle at a professional assassin in quite such a way. Only one man who makes Shaw’s stomach do the somersaults that it thus proceeds to accomplish.

“You look as though you’ve swallowed a sour grape,” Flynn observes, the charming smile on his face contradicting his words. “Even sourer than the usual grapes you’re swallowing. Cheer up, mate. You can’t be _that_ miserable at a party with free drink and all the food you can stomach. Have you tried the canapés?”

Shaw shakes his head in response to the rambling line of question, tearing his eyes off of the sprig of mistletoe before turning them towards his companion at last.

“I don’t like liver,” he replies, which is at least the truth.

Flynn tuts in response. “ _You_ haven’t _lived_ ,” he says, proceeding to shove another handful of hors d'oeuvres into his mouth for good measure.

Shaw rolls his eyes at that, before finding his gaze drifting back to the mistletoe. Unassuming amongst the rest of the décor, either he is the only one who has noticed it thus far or no one else has worked up the courage to approach the thing just yet. He _will_ give the decorators credit, it does seem very picturesque.

“Has it said something to offend you?” Flynn inquires, closer now, voice low and conspiratorial. Shaw turns and raises an eyebrow at him and Flynn offers him a smile, tilting his head across the room towards the decorations Shaw had been glaring at moments before. “Because if so, I can go over there and give it a piece of my mind.”

Shaw snorts, appreciating the other man’s ridiculous sense of humor more than words can say. He wonders if Flynn hasn’t noticed the mistletoe himself or whether he just hasn’t chosen to comment on it. No, that doesn’t seem like him at all. Probably the former.

“Someone has a sense of humor,” he explains, which earns him a somewhat blank look from the other man so he elaborates, “they’ve hidden mistletoe in the decorations. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more hidden around the rest of the hall as well.”

Flynn glances across at the fireplace in question, squinting at the greenery strung above it, then turning back to Shaw again.

“...sorry, mate,” he says, sheepishly. “‘fraid I don’t follow. Though judging by the look on your face, it certainly doesn’t bode well.”

Shaw takes a moment to consider the fact that Flynn has never encountered this _particular_ mainland tradition, before shaking his head with a shrug. “It’s a plant,” he explains. “It has certain medicinal uses of course but really all anybody uses it for is stringing it up in door frames and the like and then tricking other people into standing underneath it with them. Some nonsense about it being good luck if you -- well…” He gestures vaguely with one hand and then decides there’s no use beating around the bush. “Kiss.”

Flynn glances across the room for a moment of quiet contemplation, before reaching for Shaw’s hand and moving to drag him across the room in the direction of the decoration itself.

Caught off-guard for a moment, Shaw’s already been tugged a few steps forward before he manages to splutter, “ _Fairwind_!”

Flynn turns to cast him a mischievous glance over his shoulder as he weaves them through the party-goers. “Now, now!” he says. “There’s no need for that. You were the one who spotted the thing, there’s no choice but to give in to its wishes!”

“That’s not how--” Shaw begins, though his voice is too loud and he doesn’t wish to cause a scene. “I only had seen it from across the room. That’s not how the tradition works, and it’s only a ridiculous superstition--”

“ _Ah_ ,” Flynn says, pulling the other man up short in front of the fireplace in question. “Well, it’s too late now.”

“ _Flynn_ ,” Shaw continues to protest, somewhat exasperated now, which only earns him another smile as his companion tugs him closer now. Flynn, for his part, seems to be entirely unapologetic as to who might be looking on or what sort of an impression the two of them might be making. In fact, the look on his face seems for the world like the cat who got at the cream as his head tips down towards Shaw’s, Shaw tipping his own ever so slightly up to meet Flynn’s in return.

“We sailors are a superstitious lot,” Flynn says. “A little good luck never hurt anybody now, did it?”

“You’re incorrigible,” Shaw retorts, though the words come out a whisper. He can hardly protest when even now his body is leaning in to meet the other man’s despite himself.

Flynn’s smile widens ever so slightly. “Tell me more about these mainlander traditions of yours,” he says.

Shaw leans in to silence the other man with a press of his lips against his own. The gesture is far too public for a man of the shadows as himself, even tucked away into the corner of the room as they are, and Shaw can feel the heat of his embarrassment beginning to spread its way across his face the longer they hold their embrace.

Perhaps sensing this, or perhaps because he _does_ actually know something of how Mathias ticks, Flynn pulls away after only just a moment. If he had seemed to be pleased with himself before, it’s nothing compared to the look he has on his face now.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Mattie,” he says, reaching up to pat him on the cheek.

Shaw steps away, shaking the other man off. He finds himself both equally aggravated and pleased with how the night has managed to turn as well.

“I do have a _name_ ,” he protests, “and it certainly isn’t that one.”

Flynn laughs, and Shaw knows that it’s only a matter of time before he hears the ridiculous nickname again, or the other man manages to embarrass him on some other level at that. Yet standing there in front of the fire with the other man, he’s swiftly coming to the conclusion that he wouldn’t change that for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support! More to come soon!


	2. Snowed In/Bundling Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw realizes, in retrospect, that renting a cabin in the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter had perhaps _not_ been done with the most foresight in mind. Granted, the goal of escaping Stormwind, its inhabitants and his duties and responsibilities, _had_ been achieved. Yet, as he watches the snow steadily falling down outside the window beyond, he wonders if he might ever get out of this place again.
> 
> “You’ve got that look on your face again,” Flynn observes, from where he’s been lounging on the floor in front of the fireplace. He seems to be wearing entirely too few articles of clothing for how much snow there is coming down out there, if you were to ask Shaw himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to Jack for helping me disguise my sentence fragment CRIMES. And to Pink, who gave me a good proofread as well despite the fact that I write nasty Alliance content, haha.
> 
> And many thanks to you as well for tuning into the second chapter of this series of holiday shorts! Stay warm out there, friends!

Shaw realizes, in retrospect, that renting a cabin in the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter had perhaps _not_ been done with the most foresight in mind. Granted, the goal of escaping Stormwind, its inhabitants and his duties and responsibilities, _had_ been achieved. Yet, as he watches the snow steadily falling down outside the window beyond, he wonders if he might ever get out of this place again.

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Flynn observes, from where he’s been lounging on the floor in front of the fireplace. He seems to be wearing entirely too few articles of clothing for how much snow there is coming down out there, if you were to ask Shaw himself.

“Do I,” Shaw replies, turning back to the other man. He supposes the least he can do is pay attention to the man he’d set out to rent this cabin with. He also has to wonder idly if they might not be stuck here indefinitely, and whether or not that would in fact actually be so bad.

“Mmhmm,” Flynn humms, flopping onto his back to regard him from a new and upside-down angle. “I’ve been through my fair share of snowstorms, you know. They can pack a punch but I’ve never had a-one sneak up behind me to rifle through my pockets for my spare change.”

He tosses Shaw a wink. “Think it’s safe to turn your back on it and come down here with me? I’ll vouch. _And_ , it _is_ warmer!”

He raises a hand and gives the floor beside him a good thump.

Shaw raises an eyebrow at him in return, moving to pull the blanket he’s been wrapped up in like a second skin just the smallest bit tighter around himself.

“That is a hardwood floor,” Shaw observes.

Flynn makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat, turning sideways towards Shaw and propping himself up on an elbow so that he can regard him properly. 

“Says the big, bad spyman,” he teases. “I would have thought you’ve slept on worse.” 

“Not by choice,” Shaw counters, which is at least _mostly_ true. He’s also just too cold to contemplate exposing one more inch of skin from his blankets than he has to.

Flynn allows himself to flop back onto his back again, letting out a long dramatic sigh.

“Guess it’s just you and me after all, Reggie,” he says, addressing no one in particular. 

Shaw rolls his eyes at the other man’s antics and dares to ask, “Reggie?”

Flynn casts a hand in the direction of the bear-skin rug that he’d earlier dragged to the corner of the room and far out of the way, claiming he hadn’t liked the way it was looking at him.

“If he’s the only one who will be joining me,” he allows dramatically once more, “we might as well make acquaintance with one another.”

“Oh, for--”

Shaw swears under his breath and accepts the fact that he will probably be giving into the other man’s ridiculous whims for many times to come. With no little amount of grumbling, Shaw pushes himself up from the edge of the couch and drops down to sit cross-legged at Flynn’s side.

“Happy?” he growls.

“ _Much_ ,” Flynn agrees with a smile, before tackling the other man to the ground. Shaw does at least manage to keep his blanket mostly in place. He also manages to mostly keep the sound he makes to a grunt of surprise, instead of anything more undignified that threatens.

“ _Flynn_!” he protests, though it’s actually quite pleasant laying here in front of the fire, the other man’s body weight pressing him hard against the floor. If it weren’t so damned _hard_ beneath him, if the few places he’d fractured bones over the years weren’t protesting from the cold and the pressure, it would be almost perfect.

“Told you it would be warmer,” Flynn offers, choosing to ignore the other man’s flailing in favor of leaning in to press a kiss against his lips.

And Shaw kisses him back, relaxing back into the floor, the kiss, and _Flynn_. Deciding that perhaps he’d be willing to tolerate the discomfort for just a few more moments, if only for a few more moments of _this_.

“You’re going to suffocate me if you keep this up,” he protests after some time, beginning to honestly feel somewhat heady from the kiss and the warmth of the weight above him.

“I always knew you were a romantic,” Flynn replies, though he does have the grace to shift enough to give Shaw the space to breathe.

“Give it time,” Shaw murmurs in reply, and tilts the other man’s head down for another kiss.


	3. Decorating/Terrible Mishap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shaw is horribly confused by Kul Tiran holiday traditions, and property damage ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! Definitely getting later and later from when the original prompts were intended to be scheduled, but I'm still plugging away! Thank you again to Jack for helping me to proofread my fragment sentence CRIMES. And to Pink for more proofing and adding in more commas which I definitely needed.
> 
> And thank YOU for tuning in to this latest chapter in their ridiculous holiday saga. Enjoy!!!

Shaw isn’t certain when it first begins. He’s spent quite a lot of his time working recently -- he spends a lot of his time working _in general_ \-- and while he hasn’t been _ignoring_ Flynn, he hasn’t been paying attention to his comings and goings as closely as he might have.

In Shaw’s defense, Flynn _does_ seem to get up to quite a lot these days. Given that it’s the off-season, and the seas and the weather being what they are, only the most important voyages are being sent out this time of year. Flynn and the _Bold Arva_ seem to have been docked for the winter, a fact for which Shaw himself is secretly relieved.

With no voyage to rush off on, however, it does leave the other man with rather a lot of time on his hands. Or so Shaw would assume, as that’s the only logical explanation for the little pile of straw figurines that’s slowly begun to accumulate on his kitchen table. 

Picking one up, Shaw toys with it between his fingers, regarding it carefully. Shaped like some sort of animal, the little figure is rough and simply made, although there is a level of beauty to the knots that speak to the hands that who constructed them.

Thinking nothing more of it, he sets it back down with the rest of its friends and sets off across Old Town to SI:7 and a full day of work.

In retrospect, he should have considered them a little more closely. 

Or at least he should have asked Flynn about them when they had _first_ started appearing here and there around his little home. Theirs? It isn’t as though Flynn has a place of his own, but they’ve not really had a proper conversation about the subject as of yet.

He hasn’t, for better or worse, and so he should not be surprised at the sight that greets him that evening when he stumbles blearily back in the door. He’s not even certain what hour it is. (He has a nasty habit of losing track of time until he’s realized it’s been dark for long enough that he had better peel himself away from his desk before the sun threatens to rise on him again.) Still, Flynn seems to be up. Shaw catches the sight of the back of the other man’s head from where he sits at the kitchen table, bent over what he can only assume is more of the little straw figurines.

It’s not all that difficult to deduce; given the fact that somewhere in the span of time from leaving for work in the morning to returning just now, they seem to have multiplied by the hundreds and strung themselves over nearly every visible surface in the flat.

“...Flynn?” Shaw asks, warily. He shuts the door softly behind himself and winces as he crushes one of the little straw people into the frame. 

“What…?” 

There are a great many questions circling in his head, and a variety of ways he would like to ask them, though he settles on simply gesturing around himself and raising an eyebrow instead.

Flynn whips around in his chair, looking a little more rumpled and sleep-deprived than usual (it is late) before flashing the other man his customary grin.

“There he is!” he exclaims. “Here I was thinking you might have fallen into a ditch somewhere along the way back. You’re just in time.” 

He moves to hold up what seems to be yet _another_ string of straw figurines. 

“Here, grab hold of this.”

Shaw moves to hang his cloak on the hook by the door and steps forward to take the delicate string of figures from Flynn, even as he asks, “ _Flynn_. What in the name of the Light is all of this about?”

Flynn tilts his head up at the other man from where he’s sitting, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he smiles. “What, you mean you don’t like my taste in décor? I’m _hurt_ , you know, I really am.”

He waits until he’s certain that Shaw really _has_ got a hold of the one end of the string, before bouncing up from his chair with a surprising amount of energy for a man who’s just slaved away over several hundred straw figures over the course of the past few days.

“Hold that there, would you?” he indicates, nodding towards the end of where one string has been tacked up on the wall, then rummaging around in the pocket of his coat. Shaw frowns, turning to ask the other man just what exactly he is planning on doing, when he straightens with a hammer and a handful of nails.

“ _No_ ,” Shaw says, very bluntly, pushing the straw string into Flynn’s chest, and wrestling the hammer out of his hands as he splutters. He’s seen that look in the other man’s eyes and he knows where these things lead. “Before you go nailing--” 

His words are cut off by the positively wicked smirk that evokes from his companion and it’s all he can do not to collapse on the spot in weary exasperation. As it is, he rolls his eyes and tightens his grip on Flynn’s wrist, lest he think to try anything else.

“Before you go _nailing any more holes_ ,” he soldiers on, “into my kitchen walls, I feel as though I deserve at least half an explanation as to what this is all about?”

“ _Well_ ,” Flynn says, smiling down at him with more than a hint of amusement at how he’s obviously fraying on the edges of the other man’s nerves. “They’re straw horses, aren’t they?”

Shaw shoots the other man a look himself as if to suggest that he had better start elaborating very quickly or else he and his straw horses had better prepare to find another house to spend the night. Flynn gets the hint and makes a point to elaborate.

“Well, it’s tradition!” he says. “You’re supposed to string them up around the house and then the Timberhorse won’t be able to come in and get you, now will he?”

Shaw’s eyebrows slowly begin to climb towards his hairline.

“The Timberhorse,” he repeats, somewhat in disbelief.

Flynn shrugs. “I will admit,” he allows, “I may have gone a little overboard this year, especially given that I’m not even sure that Kul Tiran boogeymen would be able to find us all the way on a whole separate continent, but you know. When you’re a man-eating magical wicker-creature, who knows where your boundaries lie, if you get what I’m saying?”

Shaw glances around himself at the strings of straw horses which have been -- yes, nailed to his walls, and heaves a sigh.

“Alright, give it here,” he says, holding a hand out for the nail. Flynn, for his part, seems all too willing to comply. It _is_ late. And god knows how much work it must have been to do the rest of it by himself, at that.

Shaw moves to position the end of the line of horses in place, moving to situate the nail in such a way that he hopes will minimize his property damage as much as possible.

“What exactly do you plan to do with all of these when the holiday is over?” he asks. “I assume that they _are_ for the holiday and that you’re not intending to leave them up all year ‘round.” 

If so, there are _definitely_ going to be words.

“No, no, no,” Flynn replies, standing back to admire the other man’s technique (and physique, at that). 

“Nothing like that. I’ll build a bonfire!” he answers, cheerfully.

Whatever answer Shaw had expected, it had not been that one. Perhaps it is the hour, or perhaps it is the image of Flynn constructing a bonfire right there in the center of Old Town, but his hammer _completely_ misses its mark of the head of the nail -- and embeds itself in the wall beyond.

Flynn lets out a long, slow whistle in reply.

“Don’t know your own strength, now, do you?” he observes, stepping forward to admire Shaw’s handiwork. Shaw grumbles under his breath in response as he attempts to pull it out, actually feeling slightly embarrassed at the slip.

“It’s tradition,” Flynn elaborates again, reaching forward to help. “Warding away the evil for the new year and then burning it away once you’re done. I don’t know, never really questioned it -- just sort of something that’s done in Kul Tiras.” 

He grunts as the hammer is pulled free, before offering it to Shaw again with a raised eyebrow. That hole will need to be patched up at some point, but neither of them say a word about it in the moment, which Shaw appreciates. “Sometimes we trade them with each other. Kind of like ornaments, I suppose? Except you -- burn them, in the end.”

He shrugs.

“About that,” Shaw continues, moving to finish tacking the string up before Flynn surprises him with anything else. “Where exactly were you planning on doing that? The burning, I mean?”

“Oh,” Flynn hums, moving to grab hold of the other end of the string and hold it up for Shaw to finish the job. “Hadn’t really gotten that far.”

“Mmm,” Shaw replies, and really he _shouldn’t_ be surprised. 

Nevertheless…

“I’ll go with you,” he offers, once the final string of horses is up. Honestly, there _are_ far too many, and they’re in the way of nearly everything. Shaw is trying to imagine having to live with them for the next week and a half or so, and it’s all he can do not to tear them down in frustration right there and then. 

But this is for Flynn, and he’s done it all on his own thus far. And if this is his holiday tradition, then Shaw wants to be a part of it. He wants to be a part of _all_ of Flynn’s life. The good, the bad, the mad, and the absolutely ridiculous.

“Oh yeah? I’ve seen what you can do with a hammer, think I should trust you around open flames now too?” Flynn teases, winking even as the smile on his face says that he would like nothing more. 

“Shut up and come to bed,” Shaw replies.

Laughing, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Timberhorse is intended to be a Kul Tiran version of the [Yule goat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yule_goat), which is of course a completely normal festive tradition.
> 
> More prompt fills soon to come!


	4. Sweet Tooth/Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw and Flynn are invited to a feast. Anduin begs Flynn to get Shaw to relax and simply enjoy himself. Flynn does his best!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweats, yes I know that it is no longer December and we are getting further and further from the intended dates that these were supposed to be published but I am committed! Anyway, we all love fluff no matter when it is coming out, right??
> 
> Again, thanks to my proofreaders Jack and Pink, who in this instance respectively helped me come up with an ending for how this particular piece should go, and continue to edit in breaks in my run-on sentences.

Flynn watches another waiter walk by with yet _another_ tray of little cakes, his mouth beginning to water as he does. Unable to help himself, he reaches out and snags the nearest one off of the platter, popping it in his mouth whole before anyone should catch him.

Unfortunately for him, that’s exactly what someone does. 

“They _are_ rather good, are they not?” comes the unmistakable voice of the king at his side.

Flynn nearly chokes on the cake entirely.

“Captain Fairwind! Forgive me, I had not meant to startle you.”

Anduin reaches up to knock him on the back as Flynn sputters and coughs. It should figure that the sweets he had been coveting all night would be the one thing to do him in, in the end.

“ _Your Majesty_ ,” he breathes at last. “Tides, warn a man next time.”

“My apologies, Captain,” Anduin says, though in truth he sounds more amused than anything. “Would you care for a drink?”

“ _Please_ ,” Flynn returns.

In truth, he may have had several drinks already, but another wouldn’t hurt. He wouldn’t say he feels nervous necessarily, but it’s just that he’s -- exactly that. It had started when the invitation for the King’s feast had come to Shaw’s door with _both_ of their names on it. 

Flynn had stared at the piece of paper in a combination of shock and alarm.

“ _Me_?” he had asked, gaping.

Shaw had raised an eyebrow, taking the invitation from him and reading it with the casual nonchalance of a man who’d been attending formal events for half his life, before handing it back.

“Don’t look all _that_ surprised,” he had said. “You’ve been working for the crown for over a year now, and knocking elbows with the king for at least half as long.”

“But,” Flynn had spluttered.

And that had been the end of that. Now here he is, dressed in possibly the cleanest, fanciest clothes he has ever owned in his life, mingling with possibly the richest people he has ever seen in one place before, and all he can think about is how little he fits in among the lot of them.

Anduin leads the other man to a side table, handing him a glass of champagne and plucking another up for himself as he does.

“Are you enjoying the festivities, Captain Fairwind?” he asks, raising his glass to take a sip as he does.

Flynn takes a healthy swallow of his own drink, wincing slightly both at the question and at the burn of the champagne over his throat before he answers. He considers the king to be a friend, for all the shine of the crown on his head, so he honors him with the honesty he deserves.

“Truly?” he questions. “There are more than a few here tonight who have made it pretty clear they’d rather I were not.” He turns to throw a glance aside at Genn Greymane, who stands glowering at him from across the room, and raises his glass at him in a toast. Genn’s eyes narrow as he catches the gesture before he turns away in disgust, and Flynn gurns back to Anduin with a shrug in return.

“It puts a bit of a damper on the mood, mate.”

Anduin follows the line of Flynn’s gaze and frowns slightly. Genn is hardly a patient man and Flynn Fairwind is certainly a character, although he has not spent enough time around the pair of them in action to understand whether or not there is any real tension between them.

“Try not to let him trouble you, Captain,” he says, gently. “We cannot please everyone, can we?”

“Some less than others,” Flynn agrees, not liking that frown on Anduin’s face one bit at all. 

He glances across the hall at the other man before back at Anduin, raising his eyebrows. If he’s going to push the envelope to get a rise out of the man, better now than never.

“Pretty sure he’d be growling and baring his teeth at me if he thought he could get away with it,” he observes.

“Captain _Fairwind_ ,” Anduin chides lightly. “It would perhaps be in your best interests if King Greymane did not hear you say such things himself.”

“I doubt it would go over any worse than the bone I offered him at dinner,” Flynn says, throwing whatever self-respect he might have had left to the wind.

Anduin covers his mouth with a hand, torn on whether he really _should_ be amused or not.

“You did _not_.”

Flynn shrugs. “What can I say, Your Majesty. Some people just never learn to let sleeping dogs lie.”

It’s a terrible joke but Anduin _does_ actually laugh softly at that, shaking his head as he does. And whether it’s at Flynn’s expense or not doesn’t matter so much, because he has achieved his goal in the end.

Raising his drink to take a sip, Anduin sobers after a moment. He cannot say for certain how much of Flynn’s antics were just that, but it must be said --

“Captain Fairwind. I hope you know that I am the only one to dictate who should and should not be at this gathering,” he says, glancing up to Flynn as he does. “And since I _did_ invite you personally, as my guest, I say you have _every_ right to be here.”

Flynn glances away, somewhat embarrassed by the reassurances, especially considering they are coming from the king himself.

“If I am being truly honest,” Anduin continues, “there are others in attendance tonight that I had hoped your presence might benefit.”

Though he does not turn his head, he tilts it back in the general direction of the alcove behind him, where a certain Spymaster stands lurking just beyond. Flynn follows the direction that he had indicated, a smile breaking out across his face as he does.

“Does he _ever_ stop working?” he asks, the words half question, half complaint as he does.

Anduin shakes his head, stepping forward to lay a hand on Flynn’s shoulder as he does.

“That, Captain Fairwind, is where your part comes in.”

Flynn considers this, before knocking back the rest of his glass in two swallows.

“You’re on,” he says, tossing the king a wink, grabbing another pair of champagne flutes, then heading straight for Mathias Shaw.

“ _You_ are _supposed_ to be my _date_ to this event,” Flynn says, shoving one of the glasses into Shaw’s hand. 

Shaw frowns down at the gently bubbling liquid before glancing back up at the table where Flynn had been standing with the king moments prior. Anduin himself is now making his way across the room to where a dark young man with glowing red eyes stands holding an animated conversation with the guests nearby. 

“It _is_ a party, you know,” Flynn continues, cutting into Shaw’s thoughts and prompting him to turn towards the other man at last. “We _are_ allowed to enjoy ourselves.”

Shaw contemplates the glass of champagne and the loss of inhibition that would come with drinking even a small amount of it, and sets it aside.

“Did the king put you up to this?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at the other man. Flynn makes a face, pursing his lips in return.

“Really now, Spymaster,” he chides. “I’m hurt. Besides, that would depend entirely on what you meant by _this_. Though I do get the feeling that he would rather you stop lurking five paces behind him and let him enjoy the party himself, if nothing else.”

He turns to drape an arm around Shaw’s waist and bends to rest his head against the side of Shaw’s head in turn.

“I could use your company out there,” he says, which may be a bit of flirtation but it’s also entirely true. He feels more than a fish out of water, a former thief and pirate among all these kings and diplomats with their fancy dress and fancy manners. Just because Shaw had managed to convince him into a nice getup himself doesn’t mean he exactly blends in.

“Mmm,” Shaw replies, leaning slightly into the weight of him at his side. “If this is some ruse to try and get me out onto the dance floor with you, I can assure you it will not work.”

“Worried someone might catch you enjoying yourself in public?” Flynn teases, glancing down at the other man with a smile. “No, that _would_ ruin your image. That wouldn’t do _at all_.”

It does, however, give him an idea. Tipping back one last swallow of his drink, Flynn sets it aside, moving instead to drape his arms around the other man’s neck. 

“ _Well_ ,” Flynn returns, “this shadowy alcove of yours is _hardly_ public, now. Is it?”

“You and I would appear to have very different definitions of the word,” Shaw hedges, even as he moves to brace his hands on Flynn’s hips in return.

“Is that so?” Flynn replies, moving to sway the pair of them along to a tune that only he can hear. “Then you must have eyes like a cat, mate, I can barely see my hand in front of my face just now.”

Shaw sighs softly, shutting his eyes as if drawing himself inward for strength.

“Well, now you’ll _never_ see anything like that,” Flynn observes.

“I suppose that you will have to guide me,” Shaw retorts, which earns him a laugh in return. A smile tugs at his own lips at the sound despite himself.

“Ahhh, _there_ we are now,” Flynn says, grinning broadly himself. “C’mon now, love. Is it really all _that_ bad? Warm food in your belly, handsome man in your arms.” At that he tosses Shaw a wink. 

“You really don’t have to worry about the rest of it all until at _least_ tomorrow, yeah? What d’you say?”

He sways Mathias in his arms, wriggling his eyebrows up and down in a manner that was probably meant to be suggestive, or comedic, and yet all Shaw feels is a tightness in his chest at how much he loves this ridiculous bastard of a man.

“I would say that you are certainly a hard man to turn down, Captain Fairwind,” he replies, doing his best to continue to play hard to get when they both know he’s already given in.

“It’s the eyes, I expect,” Flynn replies, pulling a cartoonishly exaggerated pout at him. “How can you say no to this face?”

It’s the fact that he should want to kiss him after a line like that expresses how far Shaw really has fallen. Resignedly, he submits himself to his fate, reaching up to tangle his fingers in the other man’s hair, pulling his face down to meet his own.

“So long as I never have to see it again,” he answers, and closes the distance between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading and for your support!!


	5. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw has a rare day off from work, and Flynn knows just the place he'd like to take him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us ignore the fact that FairShawlidays was technically meant to be written over Christmas week and instead just enjoy the prompts for fun on their own!! That way I am not terribly late in submitting this... There are no mentions of holidays in this, just the cold, and since there's still 2ft of snow on the ground outside here I am still inspired!
> 
> My many thanks to my proofreaders Jack and Pink again, who edit in my commas for me and also take them away from me when I abuse them.

Shaw squints dubiously up at the tavern sign as it sways back and forth in the frigid Boralus winter air. _The Loose Cannon_ , it reads, and he pulls his jacket even tighter around himself, wondering if it might be better to let himself freeze to death out here in the cold than let Flynn Fairwind drag him inside a place like this.

Then again, he supposes he’s already let himself come this far.

He doesn’t know quite what he had been thinking, letting Flynn talk him into coming here. A day off of work is rare enough, and with the magic of portal travel there are plenty of other _warmer_ venues that they might have traveled besides _Boralus_ , of all places.

But Flynn had gotten that look in his eye and he’d started to go on about _sightseeing_ , and it _is_ true that he hadn’t really gotten to know the place when he’d been stationed there. It is also true that Flynn has all but uprooted himself from his home there and made a home of sorts with him in Stormwind, in between their respective comings and goings on various missions for the Admiralty and the Crown. Flynn has been through the tour of Stormwind, and the Keep, and the Old Town, and every bit of the city that’s worth showing off, and then some. He supposes that it is only fair that he allow him to reciprocate the favor.

It’s just that it’s damned cold out. The sort of cold that goes right through you, and while he _has_ bundled himself up properly for the occasion (a thick Kul Tiran fleece lined coat, gloves, and all) it’s _still_ damned cold. 

For another thing, Flynn’s idea of a tour of the city is eclectic _at best_.

He’d _insisted_ that they pay a visit to this particular establishment. ‘Best place in the whole city!’ he’d exclaimed, as they’d traversed their way through the snow-frozen streets and questionable back-alleys (short-cuts, Flynn had insisted) to get there. ‘A real diamond in the rough! Wait until you meet Mirjam, you’ll get a real kick out of her!’

From the ramshackle facade and the boisterous sounds of the patrons inside, Shaw isn’t certain that Flynn hadn’t meant she wouldn’t _actually_ kick him, as it turns out. Yet the grin on Flynn’s face is too wide, and although he’s been telling him stories _the whole walk over_ that have made Shaw’s hair curl at the very thought of setting foot inside that door... He knows that this is too important to the other man to do anything _but_ agree to it.

“Am I going to regret this?” he asks, as he steps forward to join Flynn on the first step of the walk.

“Oh, almost certainly,” Flynn replies, hooking a hand around his waist to prevent any chance of escape. “C’mon! Might not look like much but the pasties are the best in town! Just -- maybe stick to fish, yeah? In fact, maybe best if you just leave the orders to me.”

Shaw’s expression pinches slightly, eyes narrowing even as he _does_ allow Flynn to continue to drag him towards the front door.

“Best pasties in town,” he repeats, slightly incredulously. Flynn offers him a shrug in return.

“You haven’t been to the rest of them, mate,” is all Flynn replies, before hauling the door open with a flourish.

There is a fireplace going in the main room, Shaw will grant it that much. It does _something_ to cut through the chilly atmosphere and collective steely glances of the patrons, none of whom seem very keen to share their favorite hangout with this pair of newcomers.

“ _Flynn Fairwind_ ,” comes a distinctly female voice, and it takes a moment for Shaw to realize that the woman associated with it is _standing on the bar_. A woman wearing a tricorn hat, a pistol at her belt, and a jacket hanging a good several inches open at the waist, leaving her breasts and what little fabric covering her remaining modesty on full display. “What in the name of the Tides are _you_ doing back _here_?”

Flynn squeezes his hand around Shaw’s waist before releasing him and taking a step forward. Whether he’s doing so by way of introduction or to put himself in between the pair of them should things go south, Shaw can’t say for certain just yet. 

“Now, now,” Flynn says, sidling his way through more than a few rough looking sorts to make his way to the edge of the bar, “is that any way to speak to a paying customer?”

Mirjam narrows her eyes slightly at that, moving to squat down on the bar before him as she does. Shaw cannot help but notice that it leaves her chest but _inches_ from Flynn’s face. Flynn, to his credit, simply tips his head up to meet her narrowed gaze.

“Since when have you closed out a tab in your life?” Mirjam complains.

Flynn makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort, but notably doesn’t verbally contradict her on the matter.

“Got a proper post now, don’t I?” he says, glancing back to Shaw and grinning from ear to ear. 

They’ve talked about this. 

About how much Flynn can give away about his position with the Admiralty and how much he cannot. Especially when Shaw is there with him and -- while they are not exactly _under cover_ here, they’re certainly intended to lie low. Shaw certainly doesn’t want it bandied about in the wrong circles that the Spymaster of Stormwind frequents establishments such as these, as much for their safety as for the safety of his reputation.

As such, this is his cue to step in. 

“He’s been working for me off on the mainland,” he elaborates. “Though he insisted we take a turn about Boralus once we found the free time. I’m starting to think it was so that he could find a way to spend my money."

Mirjam lets out a loud, surprisingly deep laugh at that.

“Sounds like the Fairwind I know,” she says, before moving to swing herself down and off of the bar. “Right, then. What’ll it be.”

She bends to fetch a rag from the floor, next to what Shaw suddenly recognizes is a dead rat with what looks suspiciously like a bullet wound in it. In fact, the whole floor looks riddled with suspiciously bullet-sized knicks and holes and he glances back to Flynn with narrowed eyes.

“Why, your famous pasties, of course!” Flynn says. “Two -- fish, right mate? Two fish pasties, and two of the Kolsh.”

“Oh, of _course_ ,” Mirjam says, rolling her eyes. “Well, sit yourself down then. I’ll find you when it’s ready.”

As Flynn leads the pair of them to the open table she had waved them towards, Shaw gets the distinct impression that Flynn’s affection for the establishment and indeed his desire to return has less to do with the quality of the service and more with the character of the place as a whole. He’d been wary of how much he’d been talking the place up on the walk over, and he’s not exactly surprised to find his wariness had been entirely warranted.

“A diamond in the rough,” Shaw repeats softly to the other man as he wipes crumbs off the table before them. Flynn waves him off.

“Oh, come off it,” he says, enjoying himself far too much. “I haven’t been back here in _ages_. I’m surprised it hasn’t changed as much as it -- hasn’t.”

Shaw raises an eyebrow at him at that. Not that Flynn doesn’t tell him things about his past, but it’s just that there are so many things he doesn’t know about the other man yet.

“Oh?” he says, quietly prompting Flynn on.

“Yeah.” Flynn tips himself back in his chair slightly, taking a moment to look around the place as he does. There seems to be a moment when there’s something on the edge of his tongue, before he turns to Shaw again and says, “S’pose I should have warned you about the rats. Guess I’m warning you now!”

Shaw makes a noise deep within his throat.

“The rats,” he repeats.

“Mmm,” Flynn agrees. “It’s sort of her thing. Damned hard to get rid of them in this area of Hook Point, so she makes a show out of it. Between the, well --” He gestures to his front to indicate Mirjam’s general lack of attire. “And the rat shooting and then the bar dancing. It’s half the reason people like to come. And Mirjam herself, I expect.”

“Bar dancing…” Shaw echoes, then glances up as Mirjam herself appears at the side of their table, a pair of tankards in hand.

“Stick around long enough and you may just catch a performance,” she says, setting the tankards down in front of them with a wink. “I didn’t manage to catch your companion’s name, love.”

Flynn glances to Shaw as he reaches for his drink, taking a healthy swallow of it as he does.

“He doesn’t talk much is why,” he offers, and Shaw resists the urge to kick him underneath the table. “But this is Wood. Don’t let his glaring scare you off, he’s a big puppy dog.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” Mirjam replies, giving Shaw an appreciative once-over. “You know what they say about the quiet ones…”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Flynn replies hastily, “but this one’s taken.”

Shaw and Mirjam both glance towards Flynn at that, Mirjam in delighted surprise and Shaw slightly less delightedly so. They’re supposed to be keeping a low profile and announcing himself out in a new relationship is decidedly _not_ that.

“Flynn Fairwind,” Mirjam whistles, “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Flynn laughs, sounding a little embarrassed with his own outburst. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t you know, neither did I.”

Mirjam shoots Shaw one last glance before shaking her head at the pair. 

“Just give it some thought,” she says, as she stalks off.

Shaw lets out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. He watches her make her way back to the bar before turning on Flynn, hissing through his teeth, “What in the hell was that?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Flynn apologizes, looking honestly abashed. “Couldn’t help myself, mate. She’d never leave you alone otherwise, and I don’t think I could stand a whole evening of that. I’d forgotten about the whole --” He gestures to the front of his jacket again.

“ _Forgotten_?” Shaw says, feeling like something of a broken record the way he seems to keep repeating the other man's words right back at him. “I’d think it’s rather hard to miss, all things considered.”

“Yes, well,” Flynn says, glancing sideways at the woman in question before taking another swig of his beer. “I don’t know that she’s ever been interested in me. If I so much as dared look at her in the wrong way -- you _have_ seen that pistol she’s got hanging at her belt?”

“I take it that rats aren’t the only thing she’s taken to shooting in this establishment,” Shaw offers and Flynn shakes his head, paling slightly.

“No, mate,” he replies. “Hell, there was this one poor sod who--”

For better or worse, Flynn never manages to finish his story. He’s cut off mid-sentence as a large, meaty hand settles on his shoulder from behind, accompanied by the rough growl of a voice that instantly has his hair standing on end.

“ _Flynn Fairwind_ ,” the man says, fingers tightening against Flynn’s shoulder as he sounds his name out. “You’ve got a lot o’ nerve, showin’ yer face ‘round ‘ere again.”

Shaw raises an eyebrow, both at the man himself and at the alarming shade of white Flynn’s face has turned at his appearance. He seems a regular Kul Tiran sailing thug, the same as any other off the docks here in Boralus. But Flynn clearly knows him. Or more importantly, he clearly knows _Flynn_.

“Ah -- _Angus_ , mate.” Flynn does his best to force casual nonchalance as he turns to smile up at the man in return. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it. Was just saying that to Mirjam, wasn’t I? Never thought I’d see you again.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” Angus replies, his eyes narrowing as an equally ugly smile spreads across his face. “Lucky fer _me_ , though, you never were the brightest copper.”

He slaps his hand against Flynn’s shoulder a few times in a gesture that no doubt is aiming for equal parts camaraderie and menace.

“Angus,” Flynn tries again, bringing his hands up in a conciliatory gesture, clearly looking threatened. “No need for any trouble. Didn’t see your name on the front door of the pub but if you’ll have us clear off, then I’d be happy to oblige! No harm, no foul…”

“Here you are,” Angus continues, ignoring Flynn, “totin’ yer fancy little mainlander around the docks like a prize pony.” 

He turns to Shaw. “Doing a bit o’ sightseeing, are we? Now, isn’t that _nice_ ,” he says, clearly not caring what Shaw thinks of the matter, before glancing back to Flynn himself. “‘Specially when you’ve a _debt_ to settle, yeah? Now how many years would you say it’s been?”

Flynn splutters, and the man uses the moment to draw a pistol from within his coat, cocking it and aiming the barrel at Flynn’s temple.

“Why don’t you say we talk _interest_?”

Shaw, who’s been doing his best to sit back and observe this interaction as an average citizen might do up until this point, save for the raise of a brow at the pony comparison, decides at this point that he has had enough. Flynn doesn’t need him to fight his battles for him, but he’s clearly been caught off-guard and to sit there and watch him continue to struggle with a pistol trained to his head…

In an instant, Shaw materializes himself behind the man. It’s basic technique taught to all SI:7 recruits, and his attention hasn’t been focused on him anyway, but on Flynn’s utter lack of a useful response at all. He could just kill the man and be done with it, but then again he’s not so certain he’s _entirely_ in the wrong as it is, for all that he dislikes the image of the gun pointed at his lover’s head.

So he settles for a quick blow to the man’s arm that he clearly hadn’t seen coming, sending the gun flying in the direction opposite. In the moment of stupified silence to follow, before the man can catch his bearings, he follows through with a swift right hook to the temple. 

His knuckles ache from the blow and he can all but hear the man’s head ringing as he falls to his knees, momentarily stunned.

“ _Move_ ,” Shaw orders, reaching to tug Flynn up and out of the chair. They haven’t got all that long before the man comes to his senses and catches up with them, and he wants to be long gone before then.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Flynn replies, bouncing out of the chair as he does. He throws a glance aside at Mirjam, who’s been standing watching the whole affair from a safe distance behind the bar, lest she need to duck. “Sorry, love! I’ll--”

She waves him off tiredly. “I’ll put it on your tab. Yes, yes, alright.”

Flynn flashes her a wide smile as Shaw drags him out the door and the pair of them sprint their way across the docks towards Cyrus’ office and relative safety.

Cyrus takes one look at their slightly winded appearance, slightly winded state, and Flynn’s somewhat apologetic grin and rolls his eyes. Seconds later, they have the office to themselves and Flynn’s grin is, if anything, bigger and more sheepish than before.

Shaw has been doing his best not to seem too annoyed with the whole affair. He supposes he’s not succeeding very well, at that.

“I, ehm,” Flynn begins, somewhat hesitantly. “That -- _might_ have gone better than it did.”

“It might,” Shaw allows. 

Flynn reaches up to run a hand over his hair, breathing out a heavy sigh. 

“I suppose I didn’t realize who we’d run into,” he explains. “Not that it’s a surprise, really. Might have known, but it’s been _ages_ , and I just thought, well.” He shrugs, slightly. “Well, you know.”

Shaw leans back against the wall, crossing his arms as he glances up at the other man, raising a brow.

“I’m not sure that I do,” he says. He can make his own assumptions of course, but without hearing it from Flynn himself, assumptions are all they would be.

Flynn lets out another heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair again in a clear tell of discomfort, before groaning and stepping across the room to Mathias.

“Look,” Flynn says, reaching out to place a hand on the other man’s arm. “I’m not… It’s not that I’m _ashamed_ of where I’ve come from, yeah? But it’s not exactly something to be proud of either, yeah? I figure -- you can understand that?”

Shaw glances up into the other man’s face, nodding as he does.

“When I was young,” Flynn explains, “and my mum had died and I was still trying to figure some things out, there were always places like the Loose Cannon and people like Mirjam to help out. And I’m not saying they’re _perfect_ ,” he adds, knowingly. “I mean, did you see the size of those rats? But Mirjam, she’s always been good to me, and even if I couldn’t pay my tab, we could figure things out, yeah? I s’pose that I just wanted to…” He shrugs slightly, trailing off as he searches for the right word before settling on, “I s’pose I _did_ want to show you off. Just a _little_.”

Shaw’s eyebrows remain raised, though his expression does soften somewhat.

“Like a prized pony?” he questions, and Flynn shoves him for it.

“You do realize,” Shaw begins, reaching up to cup Flynn’s jaw and turn his face to meet his eyes. Flynn has been doing an admirable job of keeping his attention elsewhere, lest he meet with disapproval there, it would seem. “You do realize,” he says again, “that it’s a lot simpler to inform me of your plans in full in advance. I’m not certain that introducing me as your employer has the same effect. And I _would_ like to know the next time that I’m walking into trouble.”

Flynn flushes a healthy shade of pink.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Angus, he. We go way back, know him from here and there. Don’t need to tell you that I owe him a fair bit of coin, but I…” He shrugs.

“Yes,” Shaw replies, “I gathered.”

Flynn _actually_ looks embarrassed at that, which rubs Shaw absolutely the wrong way. He isn’t used to seeing shame in the other man’s eyes, and he doesn’t like it one bit at all. 

“Suppose we’ll just have to go back and do things proper,” Shaw says, making note of the look of confusion and shock that flickers over Flynn’s expression as he does.

“We -- what?”

“Not today,” Shaw allows, because there are terrible ideas, and then there are _terrible ideas_. “Best to let your friend cool his heels. Besides, he can’t hang about that tavern all the time. But if your aim was to show me about and introduce me to your old friend…” Shaw raises an eyebrow in question at that, before continuing, “then next time, let’s do it properly. You won’t be able to tell her _who_ I am, of course, but.”

He shrugs.

“If the goal is to let an old friend know you’ve done better for yourself, you need not _entirely_ lie about the situation,” he allows.

Flynn stands flabbergasted for a few moments longer before a wide smile spreads its way from ear to ear across his face.

“Ms Mirjam,” he tones, stepping forward to wrap his arms around the back of Shaw’s neck and tug him in close. “It would be my _honor_ of introducing you to--”

“Don’t push it,” Shaw cuts in.

“This fine specimen of a man whom I have--”

“I’ll go back on my word,” Shaw threatens.

“The privilege of sharing a bed with and calling my lover,” Flynn finishes, for now. He leans in to steal a kiss, smiling against Shaw’s lips and afterwards, when they pull apart.

“Never knew you were such a romantic,” he murmurs, and Shaw grumbles in return.

“I’ve still got half the day off and nowhere in particular to be,” Shaw replies. “How’s _that_ for romance?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely took liberties with Crimper Mirjam and her relationship with Flynn/his relationship with The Loose Cannon. That having been said, when I was looking for inspiration on who to have Flynn "reunite" with, once I found her I knew I had to. I mean, [gestures at the front of her jacket](https://wow.gamepedia.com/Crimper_Mirjam). (Angus, however, is entirely my (very loose) creation.)
> 
> Also my thanks for your support in this holiday challenge fic that I am continuing to write out of the holiday season. I've committed to finishing it and by hell or high water, I will see it through!!


End file.
